


Game Changer

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3848554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMT: Shaw x root prompt- their new number is a pro sports player and shaw and root have to attend one of the games to keep a close eye on them and while watching their number from their seats in the crowd, the kiss cam segment comes on and they are the first couple on the jumbo-Tron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Changer

“How do you feel about basketball?” Harold asks Root as she reads the computer screen over his shoulder. She draws her eyes over to him, an unreadable smile on her lips, then returns her attention to the screen.

“I’ve never been a big sports person,” Root responds, pushing off the back of his chair and coming to lean against his desk. “Work never seemed to permit the time.” Harold raises his eyebrows in thorough agreement.

“Our newest number is a pro-basketball player by the name of Shane Larkin. He is a guard for-”

“The New York Knicks.” Harold swivels in his chair to face the voice, taken by surprise. Root looks up from the screen at the same time, smile widening into a lopsided grin, and her eyes light.

* * *

 

“Didn’t take you for the sport type, Sameen,” Root says, a pleasant rumble in her voice at the wonderful surprise; she crosses her arms, gaze trained steadily on Shaw. Shaw returns the stare evenly, face divulging nothing.

“I’m not,” Shaw responds blandly, then turns her attention to Harold. “He was just on the news the other day. Apparently leaked information to the press about someone taking charity money and using it personally.” As if on cue, Harold brings himself back around to his computer, fingers lightning across the keys as he searches the information. An internet tab pops up, revealing an online news post.

“Shane Larkin of the New York Knicks reveals a heart-shattering theft within the NBA,” Harold murmurs, scanning across the article. “Damion Louis, CEO of a non-profit organization that helps children with Autism, is said to be taking copious amounts of donations the basketball team is raising, and lining his pockets without consideration.” Harold types briefly once more, and the web page shifts to a vile compilation of crude and demeaning posts. Photos of Damion Louis with devil horns, others with profanatory slurs written over his head. Even more have his face scratched from pictures, one video playing of a man burning the photo. Like trash on a highway, social media is littered with tweets and status updates regarding Louis as heartless and disgusting, among other, more vulgar things.

“This definitely seems like motive to me,” Root says unnecessarily, and Harold nods.

“And with the money this man has,” Harold adds with a stunned awe in his words, “he doesn’t even need to lay a  _finger_  on Larkin to have him murdered.”

“He won’t get that far,” Root assures him, a determination in her eyes as she looks at him. Then, her countenance becomes lighter as she asks, “So where is Larkin?”

“…Currently getting ready for a game,” Harold informs her after checking the computer. “They are playing against the Boston Celtics in an hour.”

“Well, I think it’s about time we show some support for the team,” Root says, stepping away from the desk and walking over to Shaw. “What do you say we catch a game?”

Shaw narrows her eyes at Root slightly, studying Root’s amused, brown eyes.

“How are we getting in?”

Root looks her over quickly, a provocative glow coming to her eyes that always causes Shaw to stiffen in defensive annoyance. Root tilts her head down to Shaw almost secretively.

“I’ll leave  _that_  up to you,” she remarks, and Shaw rolls her eyes.

“Your little robot overlord can’t print you a ticket?” Shaw grumbles, deflecting the tone in Root’s voice, and turning to walk towards the exit. Root watches her leave, affection in her eyes and humor in the smile she tries to suppress. Giving one last farewell glance to Harold, her hidden smile breaks, and she hurries off to the street.

________\ If Your Number’s Up /_________

The stadium is gargantuan, every seat of every row packed like rowdy sardines, some shouting to others they know, others laughing drunkly with the people beside them. The entire space is one large roar, hundreds of different tones layered on top of each other, causing an overwhelmingly loud scene. The stands are a sea of white and red, constantly moving as fans walk about in nearly identical jerseys. In the fourth row back, Shaw and Root see a group of shirtless men painted in the team’s colors.

“You still excited to ‘support the team’?” Shaw says snidely, looking with annoyed eyes at the multitudes of people all around them. Root looks over at her with doting eyes, a smirk playing on her face.

“ _Relax_ , Sam,” Root coos as they start to ascend the stairs, seeming surprisingly out of place in their dark attire. “Have some fun.” From behind Root, Shaw rolls her eyes, and Root smiles, without even seeing the gesture she knows it took place.

Finally, they reach their seats nearing the nose-bleed section, and squeeze in past a group of people more casually dressed. Now, among people in t-shirts and jeans, the women become lost in the crowd, normalcy giving them the best camouflage.

Sinking into their plastic seats, Shaw sees with dismay that the referees walking about the empty court look like ants on a club cracker.

“How are we supposed to see our number?” Shaw demands with slight frustration, squinting a little to try and magnify the view. Root points straight out, and Shaw follows the finger.

Her eyes run along a dark ceiling with dividers all filing into a center point, cross bars and lights in between giving it the look of a spiderweb with dew. She lets her gaze drift down to a large, LED box suspended from the center point, three large screens attached on all sides. The middle one has a score board and player names rolling across on a bright white background, the other two show different angles of the court.

 _It’s a nice space_ , Shaw thinks to herself, taking in the seemingly nonexistent wall across from them, the people on that side cloaked in darkness and distance. The basketball court is well polished, wood glistening under the intense lights staged all around it. In the center is a large decal, orange basketball rimmed in light blue, the blue trailing away like the tail of a comet. In big, bold letters, the word “Knicks” is spelled out across the ball. The smell of concession stand food begins to envelop her, and she looks over towards the stairway for its source.

Then, a hand comes to her stomach, forearm just barely touching around her side, and her muscles tense. Without even looking, she speedily and forcefully wraps a hand around the mystery arm’s wrist, nails digging into their skin. From her left, Shaw hears a muffled choke of someone swallowing sudden pain, and her eyes dart over.

_Root._

Shaw’s jaw clenches, nostrils flaring and eyes coming to slits. Within her, her stomach is mixing chamber, swirling together a concoction of adrenaline and butterflies.

“What. Are. You.  _Doing_.” Shaw seethes, the instability of her now roaring heart causing her anger.  _Why are you so worked up,_  she asks herself, but doesn’t listen in for an answer.

Root’s slightly pained expression melts away into a suggestive and smug one, mouth opened slightly and eyes set to captivate. Shaw feels her lip tug into a sneer, a jolt running through her veins at the sight.

Root, without trying to reclaim her hand, slowly draws herself in towards Shaw. Shaw watches, unsure what to think of this, and her nails dig deeper into Root’s wrist in warning. At last, Root stops, mouth dangerously close to Shaw’s ear. She can feel the butterflies migrating to her heart, and wants nothing more than to rip off their wings.

“Just taking what’s mine,” Root answers in a low voice, calmness concealing the wired electricity flooding her from head to toe, every nerve in her body hit with a high that only Shaw can bring about. Shaw swallows, lips still curled back aggressively, eyes still narrowed as she looks out at an angle, not daring turn her head to face Root.

With Root’s breath hot in her ear, Shaw feels her grip loosen. Not a moment later, Root’s hand starts out once more, snaking across Shaw’s abdomen. Shaw holds herself tight, stomach muscles coiled to the breaking point, as she uses all the restraint she has not to snap. She can feel as her outer neutrality begins to deteriorate at a pace much too fast for her liking.

Root’s elbow is at Shaw’s hip now, resting comfortably against her jeans, as her hand wraps around Shaw’s side. Shaw opens her mouth to speak when she suddenly stops, raging butterflies freezing mid-flutter, anger in her eyes halting to let in a flicker of confusion. Root’s hand fumbles with the lining of Shaw’s jacket, and a moment later, Root’s hand is gone. Eyes cast down quickly, Shaw sees the glint of a gun as Root stashes it stealthily into her waistband. Then it hits her.

 _I had her gun._  Instantly, a heated flush rushes to her cheeks, painting them pink. Her lips are pressed together tight, the feelings of embarrassment making her body icily cold inside, while heat pours from her on the exterior.  _I’d put it, along with mine, in my jacket lining so they wouldn’t be found_. She’d done it on numerous occasions, always getting past security with ease.  _Only I never hid anyone else’s_. In a flash, she scolds herself profusely for forgetting so quickly, for being so naive, for thinking… what she had been thinking. She wouldn’t even acknowledge that realm any longer, pushing it all away and burying it deep down.

Swallowing once more, the effort strained, she forces her eyes down as the team members begin spilling out. All around, people stand, screaming and cheering with smiles plastered to their faces. From a little ways away in the stands, Shaw sees a man in a headset looking at her.  _No, not me_. He speaks into it, eyes trained on Root, and Shaw grows hostile. Then, someone stands, blocking her view of him. In the next moment, he is gone.

______\ We’ll Find You /______

“And it appears the Celtics have called a time out,” the commentator tells the crowd a few minutes into the last quarter of the game. A whistle is blown, and the court clears. Suddenly, an upbeat jingle pulses through the stadium’s speakers, and the three, large televisions swap out their game statistics for a lighter design.

All three have a correlating, pink background, white confetti falling across it from top to bottom, all in sync. The words, “Kissing Cam” appear in large, curly white font on the top screen, pulsing in and out with a red heart for the ‘i’. The middle is dedicated to a video feed centered on the basketball court, two large hearts being the border for the image. The last, bottom screen lists the sponsors of the little stunt.

Around and around, a camera scans the crowd as faces become blurs, view continuously gaining altitude until the camera finally stops.

At first, it doesn’t connect in her head. Shaw sees herself up on screen, yet her eyes don’t look back at her in this image. She sees Root in this space as well, eyes focused in the same direction as Shaw’s. Shaw watches Root’s eyes expand, pupils dilating, but all on the screen. Around her, a sudden upheaval of cheers explodes her eardrums. And then it all falls together.

_Oh, no._

Shaw feels her fingers twitch on the seat’s arm rest, heart leaping into her throat, all the while her outer expression remains unreadable. She watches as Root looks over to her on the screen, and then Shaw turns to face her.

Root’s eyes are questioning, wondering what to do.

Shaw shakes her head, partially dazed, and partially disbelieving of the entire scenario. All around her, the crowd boos, seeing the refusal up on the big screen. Still, the cameras remain, holding firm to its decision.

“The longer the camera is on us, the more danger we’re in,” Root breathes out, lips barely moving to form the words. Shaw’s eyes reply that they are fully aware, and an annoyance flares in them. Just choose someone else, she fumes to herself, then looks back at the screen. More firmly now, she shakes her head.

_No._

She still watches Root’s eyes on her through the live feed, and finds a tingle running down her spine, seeing Root’s expression change from surprise to consideration.  _Maybe longing? Not a chance_ , Shaw spits to herself venomously, _it’s all in your head_. Peering down the stands, she sees row upon row of people watching her. Some wear angry stares, spiteful eyes boring into her; some give her encouraging smiles and thumbs up. Her eyes land on the man from before, and she sees him smiling at her widely. He nods to her, telling her to go ahead, and an enraged dawning washes over her.  _He set this up. I swear I’ll ki-_

“Hey, Ponytail!” A man’s voice jars her from her thoughts, and she turns her head back to the left, seeing someone who faintly reminds her of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Seeing he has her attention, he continues. “If  _you_  won’t kiss her,  _I_  will!”

The people around him erupt at that, a mixture of cheers and laughter, and his grin widens. Shaw leans over Root with anger, eyes boring into his threateningly.

“If you so much as  _touch_  her, I will asphyxiate you with your own  _tongue_ ,” Shaw spits, and his face drops into one of fear. He leans away quickly.

Shaw begins to pull back, but a warm hand on the nape of her neck makes her stop. Not a second later, she feels the ball of a thumb push her jaw up. She barely has time to make out Root’s face before she can’t see a thing. Soft lips are pressed against hers, and she can see brown hair before her, and it tickles her cheek. Stunned. She is utterly stunned. All around the crowd begins to scream in robust cheers, but the sound is less than a cricket chirp in Shaw’s ears. Everything else around her seems to fade out completely, and her eyes close.

Her mind short circuits, not a single thought able to pass through, and stars burst behind her eyelids. Root tilts her head to the side, pressing herself closer and mouth parting. Shaw, nothing in the world at the moment but this, goes with it.

Some unknown time later Root pulls away quickly, averting her eyes at all costs and cheeks painting like a porcelain doll. Shaw remains frozen in place, half leaned over the seat, and her eyes slowly pull open. Her thoughts are sluggish, impaired by what just took place, thoughts barely able to form past the strings of that moment replaying in her head. Finally, Shaw finds the words and puts them together.  _She kissed me._

A simple sentence, but a complex labyrinth of emotions and ideas and confusion constructing each syllable. Shaw watches Root’s face, still not moving, and sees Root’s eyes slip back over at her. They get caught on Shaw’s, a small, nearly sheepish half smile forms at the corners of Root’s lips. Shaw takes in how Root seems to glow, illuminating this part of the stands much brighter than any light could do.

People clap and hoot all around, and someone from behind Shaw points a finger past her nose, urging her to look up at the screen. Not sure why, she listens to their instructions, and sees a photo still of the moment. She’s not sure what to make of it, except the picture doesn’t do it justice.

The screen fades away, and the game returns.

“Ms. Groves- Shaw- hello?” Harold’s voice has a hint of worry in it, and Shaw sits back in her seat, keeping her eyes away from Root, feeling her lips tingle.

“Hello, Harold,” Root greets cheerily, a sort of ecstasy lacing her words.

“Is everything alright?” He persists, not registering her giddier-than-usual tone.

“Sorry, Harold,” Shaw replies coolly, glad the heavy beating of her heart isn’t making her voice shake. “The crowd was a little wild.”

“He’s here,” Harold tells them, and Shaw sits forward, alertness flooding back to her senses.

“Where?”

“He just entered the back doors. Apparently no one was paying attention enough to stop him. Is the game really  _that_  intriguing?”  _No_ , Shaw answers him in her mind,  _but time out was._

“We’re on it,” Shaw says, and quickly hits the power button on her ear wig, nervous that her calm demeanor might not last through many more questions. Without another word, Shaw stands, pushing her way past the row of people and slipping down the stairs. She can hear the clicking of Root’s heels just behind.

As soon as they escape the throng of the stadium, Shaw instantly wishes the noise would have followed them. Now, in this deserted hallway, the silence pulls a tight knot into Shaw’s stomach. Shaw slows down slightly, just enough to allow Root to walk at her side. Peering over, she sees Root’s eyes slightly distant, a smile unwavering on her face.

“What are you  _smiling_  about?” Shaw demands with fluster, stopping in her tracks and grabbing Root’s forearm, turning Root to face her. Root won’t look at her directly at first, and the smile widens on her face- against her will.

“Camera loved it,” Root replies shortly, eyes shining with amusement and unmistakable pleasure as she finally looks at Shaw.

 _Yeah, the camera_ , Shaw thinks to herself sarcastically, but then falls short, seriousness gripping her.  _What was she truly thinking? Was it only to get the camera off? Then why so long, if that was it?_ The questions were stones thrown at the glass house of her mind, and she couldn’t for the life of her replace the damage.

Her pondering is cut off as a man in a business suit walks briskly around the corner. Not Damion Louis, this man is quite the opposite. Long, thin frame, angular facial features, and expensive taste. Shaw and Root turn their heads to face him at the same time, both seeing the large rifle strapped to his back, and the silencer attachment in his left hand. Upon seeing them, he freezes, not expecting any interruptions.

He reaches towards his pocket, but before his fingers even graze the lining, Shaw and Root both have a gun pointed at him. Shaw’s in her right, and Root’s in her left. His eyes widen, nose crinkling in amusement. Quick as a flash he protrudes a hand gun from his pocket, but before he has time to take aim, each woman fires once, taking out both knees and he falls to the ground. Rolling in pain, the vein in his neck bulges, teeth grinding against each other in agony.

Shaw brings her gun down, ready to stow it away when she sees something that sends a butterfly hiccuping from her mouth. Her hand is still on Root’s arm. Root, noticing it too, shoots Shaw a coy smirk.

Shaw, with reddening ears, lets go stiffly, walking with a business-like profession towards the exit, needing some air.

______\ Game Changer /______

The ride home was silent. Nothing was heard save for the hum of the motor and the occasional thump of a tire on rock. The walk into the subway station was the same, Shaw steaming and thinking, Root eccentric, keeping quiet to hide it away. Walking onto the terminal, Shaw is surprised to see everyone in the station at this hour. From the desk, Shaw can hear the sounds of cheering, and the familiar voice of the basketball game’s commentator. She feels an inner lurch of her stomach, blood becoming icy.

Harold sits in the chair, seeming bored. Annoyed more than anything, not being able to work on his computer with the game streaming. Behind him, John looks over to the women, an amusement sparking in his eyes. Lionel, less subtle, wears an overwhelming grin.

“How was the game,  _love_  birds?” He asks, and Shaw’s eyes narrow. She can feel her fists clench at her sides.

“What are you talking about?” She asks, and edge to her voice.

“Just-  _you_  know,” Lionel says, childish glee getting in the way of his prior statement. “Let John show ya.”

 _Show ya_. The phrase makes Shaw clamp her jaw shut tight. Taking his cue, John walks forward, unlocking his phone in the process. He stops before the women, takes one last indulgent look at the screen, and flips it to face them.

The still from the game. Shaw’s eyes draw back in mortification. _Why does he have that? Where did he get it?_  She wants to strangle him, and debates seriously on it. From her side, Root raises her eyebrows minutely to John, giving a subtle point to herself. With a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth, he gives her an assuring nod.

Letting a smile pull through before controlling it once more, Root takes a steadying breath before calling over to Harold.

“Thanks for sending us, Harry,” she says, unable to hide the bubbly feeling rising within her, making her feel as if she’s walking on air. Turning her gaze down to Shaw, Shaw looks over at her, a twinge of annoyance and deflection in her brown eyes. Root’s voice is still directed outwards, but Shaw can feel it aimed at her. “Can’t wait until the next time.”

“ _What_?” Shaw asks, visibly showing shock. Root, giving her a quick scan and a smirk, begins to walk out. Shaw finds her pulse quickening again, and her voice comes out angered, demanding an answer. “Wait-  _Root_!”

**Author's Note:**

> Shane Larkin actually is a guard for the New York Knicks, but the Damion Louis guy and the charity do not exist.


End file.
